Reverse the Day
by BernardTheWolf
Summary: A day starts like any other after Sherlock's return, but is interrupted by a girl at the door who has been beaten within an inch of her life. Unbeknownst to the three of them, she is wrapped up in spider's web of deceit and crime that will put all their lives at risk and push even the great Sherlock Holmes. Eventual Johnlock. T for crime, violence/abuse, and the odd curse word.
1. An Unexpected Visitor

***A/N:** I'm back again! This is a multi-chaptered fic about a girl who randomly shows up on John and Sherlock's doorstep beaten within an inch of her life. A mystery Sherlock is willing to investigate. This will have eventual Johnlock-ish in it. Not heavy, centered Johnlock more as a light side plot.

Apparently there's something about my stories that makes people not want to review, so if you would that would make me very happy!

Need I say I don't own this?

**Chapter One: An Unexpected Visitor**

The Wednesday morning for John Watson began just like any other. The doctor drowsily entered the living room and his and Sherlock's flat to find the consulting detective at the kitchen table fiddling with his chemistry equipment at his microscope, performing an experiment that he had no doubt been up examining all night. The flat was still in its typical state of disorder, John hadn't touched any of Sherlock's things since his faked suicide, loathe to disturb any memory or trace of Sherlock's time in the flat the two of them had shared and did again.

"'Lo Sherlock," John slurred, a little sleepily to no one in particular since his flatmate almost never heard him when he talked as he was enthralled with his extensive experiments anyway. He had been more attentive since his return, but his absorption with his scientific enterprises hadn't changed.

John nonetheless walked over to his flatmate to see what he was doing, curious, and stood close enough to be able to smell the faint scent of his shampoo and the permanent remnants of formaldehyde, spearmint, and ink that always lingered on his skin. John always thought it was a bit strange to experience, but it fit Sherlock's personality and the doctor didn't question it. He was just glad to have Sherlock back.

The doctor was going on month three having his best friend, his _Sherlock, _back to him after the Fall. For the first few days John didn't want to leave Sherlock's side for anything, he didn't even sleep for the longest time. He was afraid that when he woke up the apparition of Sherlock would have disappeared, gone away from this this world, just that, only a figment of John's mind and the suffering doctor would have to go back to the living nightmare that composed his life since the fake suicide and be forced to drag himself through his daily existence without his best friend, the person he loved most in the world. Just… _gone… _

As the cruelty of Fate would have it, John had eventually drifted off, of course, and when he had been sleeping for a solid six hours, the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes required some form of entertainment, so he returned to his long-missed chemistry equipment to return it to its previous state of 'order' and begin an improvised experiment. The genius misjudged the capacity of the breaker and managed to blow out all the electrical sockets in the kitchen, rendering his precious refrigerator and microwave powerless and thus useless. For the three minutes Sherlock had to leave the main floor of the flat he and John still shared to reset the fuse box the doctor had woken, seeming to sense his absence, and Sherlock returned to a near-catatonic Watson in an arm chair.

Psychology claims that sociopaths cannot feel guilt. Sherlock Holmes would disagree. It was the second highest level of remorse and self-condemnation he had ever felt in his adult life; the first was only a few days prior.

The army doctor had called in sick so he could spend every waking moment with the man he knew he loved. Sherlock had no qualms about this decision, but the time did eventually come when John had to return to work and pretend like there was no earth-shattering change in his life.

"Ah, good. There you are, I've been asking you to hand me my phone for the past five hours John," was the ex-consulting detective's absent reply as his flatmate loomed over his shoulder. John rolled his eyes, a practice he fell back into quickly with Sherlock around again.

"Where is it?" he sighed tiredly, mussing his hair.

"My pocket." Sherlock replied simply, as if it was obvious.

"Which pocket?" John was currently in possession of Sherlock's beloved dressing gown which he had 'borrowed' a long time ago after Sherlock's 'death' and had no intention of returning any time soon (Sherlock didn't seem to have a problem with this) so it wasn't there. The taller man was still wearing the clothes he had been yesterday, so it there somewhere on his person.

"Front left."

"…Of your _trousers?"_

"What part of the question do you not understand John?" had John known this was Sherlock's uncouth, novice way of making an advance he might of reacted differently, but he did not so he sighed, completing another eye roll and slipped his hand into Sherlock's pocket. His black slacks were loose enough around the dark-haired man's thin frame John could easily retrieve the requested item and held the mobile phone in front of Sherlock's face.

"My hands are currently occupied John," he said, flicking his eyes to his flatmate then back to his specimen. John just figured he was being blatantly troublesome and glared daggers in the back of the detective's head.

"Texts?" Sherlock asked, requesting John to check it for him. The doctor found this slightly odd, considering Sherlock almost never asked him to act secretary. Personal slave and lackey was another story though.

"No," John replied after unlocking the screen. It momentarily occurred to John then how much Sherlock trusted him. Whatever business that had been wrapped up in, even if he had completed it, was most likely still attached to his coattails (the self-proclaimed sociopath had a knack to pick up enemies and dangerous, unwanted predicaments as well.) John also knew that the consulting detective had recently gotten back in touch with the NYC and Lestrade and there was now some serious business between Sherlock and his incorrigible brother, Mycroft, now that he was back. The notion made John feel happy.

"Then what time is it?" Sherlock asked, breaking the doctor's train of thought.

"Erm, 6:49." Sherlock hummed lightly in response, his form of thanks.

John placed the mobile on the overly cluttered kitchen table, near enough so that Sherlock could easily reach it, even though he knew the man wouldn't bother anyway.

The short man went to the refrigerator to look for a salvageable breakfast to sate his hunger pangs. He barely flinched at the explicit bowl of intestines that had been important enough to receive the main shelf in the fridge and John's favorite mixing bowl.

"Sherlock, could you at least put some plastic wrap over this?" John deadpanned, closing the fridge in forfeit and going to the cabinet to look for cereal.

"It needs oxygen." Sherlock replied in an equally flat voice. John, anticipating this answer from his friend, mouthed the words as Sherlock spoke them. The doctor kept calm and carried on looking for food. Cereal, check. Milk, nada. _Why is there never any milk in this house?_ Giving up, John just ate the cereal out of the box, not trusting the dishes, and retrieved the tea kettle from the stove.

"Is this safe?" he asked, holding it up. He had to ask again before he got a reply. Sherlock broke from his concentration and turned to look at the pot in John's possession. The doctor became worried when Sherlock had to stop and think if it was usable.

"I believe so," he replied after a moment, partially squinting his eyes.

"Never mind." John muttered, putting the tea kettle back.

"It's perfectly safe," Sherlock contradicted, "you'll just have to boil the tea a little longer than normal… oh, but if you taste iron you might want to dump it out." He said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. John rolled his eyes, not even bothering, and planned to buy a new one on the way home from the clinic this evening.

He left the kitchen, heading or the door to go upstairs to get ready for the upcoming day when the doorbell to the flat rang. _It's not even seven…! _The doctor internally groaned. John considered ignoring the sound and hoping whoever it was would go away when it rang again. He sighed and headed for the downward stairs.

"_Don't answer it if it's a journalist!" _he heard Sherlock call. _Like I need to be reminded!_ John thought with a bit of sourness. Not being able to have his morning tea had put him off.

The bell rang again and again urgently which didn't matter to Watson, if anything making him walk all the more slower. If it was Mycroft or one of his cronies, he could _wait._

"I'm coming, I'm _coming!" _he grumbled at the doorbell irately. It rang once more and John quickly unlocked and opened the flat door before it could do so again.

John Watson was a little more than surprised to find a woman, no a _girl,_ hunched over in the doorway, trying to keep her composure and possibly try to go unnoticed, but the failed attempt was rather pointless as she was covered in wounds and had a highly disheveled appearance. She held a hand over her side which seeped blood through the spaces in her fingers as she panted and wheezed heavily. Her eyes, which had been previously trained at the ground flicked up to the doctor's. Her face was covered in grime and tear tracks cut through the grit, and there was a wild look in her eye like a person who had seen the face of Hell. Before either of the two could get a word out a groan escaped her lips and she collapsed.

***A/N: **So there you have it! Please let me know what you think!

Oh yes, I didn't know what British people called saran/plastic wrap so I just said plastic. Please forgive me if it's incorrect. Which it probably is.


	2. Bullet Holes

***A/N: ** Yay, chapter tew! In case anyone was wondering (and I didn't make it clear in the last chapter :P) this is _NOT _a John/OC or Sherlock/OC story. The girl is a teenager, so that would be exceedingly creepy and plus breaking up Johnlock is an unforgiveable _sin!_

Disclaimer: Really? Must I say it? Really?

**Chapter Two: Bullet Holes**

_Before either of them could get a word out, a groan escaped her lips and she collapsed._

John recovered quickly from the surprise and caught the falling girl, lowering her gently to the ground. She was a lot lighter than she looked and felt fragile, meaning she had been starved for a time. Going into army doctor mode, Watson immediately slammed the door to the flat and shrugged off Sherlock's dressing gown. Kneeling down, John elevated the girl's traumatized head, noting she had momentarily lost consciousness as he examined her.

"_Sherlock!_ Sherlock get down here _now!" _John bellowed, probably waking Mrs. Hudson in the process. A moment later the tall, lanky man came rushing down the stairs. He was much more alert and compliant after his return to 221B, much to Watson's chagrin. _It takes a fake suicide to get you to listen… _John offhandedly thought as he went back to the mystery girl.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the abused girl in John's arms as the doctor catalogued her injuries. _Lacerations covering entire body, semi-serious head injury, old, but not healed. Bleeding from exertion. Bruises covering entire body. Various instruments, blunt objects. _His doctor brain went to work as he looked her over. John had to lift the auburn haired girl's hand from the wound on her side she had been trying to cover to get a look. The surrounding area of her (less than) white and blue cardigan was sopped in her blood and John was forced to rip the fabric. The pain of the adjustment woke the girl and she tried to bolt up into a sitting position, gasping for air like a stranded fish. Watson had to slow her down and keep her from going into a panic.

"Try to take deep breaths." He coaxed in a calm voice.

Meanwhile Sherlock had been making his own observations about their guest. _ Red hair, pale skin, assuming green or blue eyes. Scottish or Irish descent is likely. Mid- to late teens. Normal dress, does not hold important social status. Held captive and tortured for at least three days… approximately five. Strong smell of petrol, mixed with various components of dirt coating her body. Held in deserted automobile warehouse. Five possible locations. Inexperienced interrogator, wounds unprofessional. Also not serious, they wanted her alive. Most likely for possessing information valuable to captor. Is useless dead… The bullet wound… _He puzzled over this for half a second before it made sense. _Made by poor marksmen at long distance. Explains potentially fatal placing. She was trying to escape… looks like she succeeded. _A thought flashed through Sherlock's mind, _what if they followed her…? _He immediately went to the window, looking out. The genius could not currently decipher anything else as of right now without getting a better look that Watson had not about her wounds other than which object made what wound, ranging from the toe of a boot to razor blades, because of her current physical condition and the distance between them.

_Who are you? _Sherlock wondered, glancing back out the window, and then getting closer to her and Watson then stepping back as she bolted up. John instructed her to take deep breaths as her eyes rolled around in panic then locked on her caretaker.

"Ar-are you John Watson?!" she demanded, gripping the front of his sleeping shirt with unproportional strength that was fueled by adrenaline and terror.

"Y-yes, I am." The doctor replied.

_Yes, definitely Scottish. Highlander. _ Sherlock thought.

"I need to take you to a hospital-" John started, but was quickly cut off.

"_NO! _You _can't _take me to a hospital!" she shouted, panic gripping her like a vice.

"So, um, I guess that means the police too then…?" the doctor asked, beating Sherlock to the punch.

"_Especially _not them!" John could feel the trembling of the girl in their close proximity as she tried to stress to him the seriousness of her situation and how it needed to remain as private as possible and out of the public eye.

"Why not?" Sherlock less than asked, stepping into the conversation. The girl whirled quickly, causing Watson to wince internally at her movement. A look of relief crossed over face and she opened her mouth to speak, "They can't - _agh!"_ the adrenaline that had been fueling her actions and fending off the messages of pain that ranged from every wound on her was running its course, sifting out like sand in an hourglass, and already taking a deep physical toll. She cried out from the bolt of pain from her rashly quick motions and she slumped. John caught her before she could reach the tile and hit her head. The doctor feared she had a concussion and had to get her to a medical treatment center as soon as possible.

_They can't what, know? What can't they know? _This new evidence drew the conclusion that the girl's captor(s) were people of interest involved in some sort of crime ring, very intimidating, or exceedingly dangerous and were otherwise not to be tangled with. People that could cause problems for him and John. Sherlock suspected all three, knowing that a larger group of people was more common to insight fear in an individual unless the offender was a psychotic, satanic serial killer. She was a typical captive: _the police can't know or I'll be caught and killed. Blah, blah, blah. Boring, boring, boring. _John checked the girl's consciousness; she whimpered, barely aware.

"We need to get her to the clinic," he determined, hoisting the near-emaciated girl into his arms. Despite her height advantage on the doctor, he would be able to carry her. She was underweight and he had carried full grown men and women through the desert heat on no sleep. He took her upstairs to the flat to get her out of the limelight (Mrs. Hudson).

"What about her request not to be taken-" Sherlock began flatly but was cut off by his flatmate, being made to move aside so the doctor could take his cargo up the stairs.

"I don't have the resources to treat her _here, _Sherlock. I need to take her to a place where I can give her correct, professional care," he explained simply, stressing each word as if he was talking to a simpleton, turning the tables on his resurrected friend for once as he headed up the steps. Sherlock huffed, momentarily unamused at his doctor's antics.

Thankfully for John, his friend had the graciousness to open the door for him and Watson went to set the 'visitor' on the sofa. If he had been paying attention to his flatmate he would have noticed the imperceptible wince at the "defilement" of his beloved couch. John rushed upstairs to put in actual clothes, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

The consulting detective took this opportunity to examine the alien girl that was occupying his flat more carefully. He sauntered over to _his _couch and appraised her condition. _Lacerations around wrists and ankles. Very fine cuts, appears to be jewelry wire. No shoes, soles of feet heavily damaged; various contributions. Highly concentrated amount of dirt and grime, exposure to dirty London streets… Presumably during escape. Estimated amount of time from accumulative damages and amount of filth: three to four hours. Hypothesis: she escaped around four o'clock this morning. In possession of a necklace, unknown significance to wearer. Formerly sturdy build, possible athlete. Height suggests football or track. Ankles and knees support theory, but hands do not. Unfeminine hands, not inherited from genetics, suggesting she did some sort of physical labor. Tom-boy, not athlete._

Sherlock moved in a little closer and ran his fingers over her sweater that had managed to stay more or less intact and wasn't ripped to shreds, and collected a specimen of the grime that coated her and rubbed it between his fingers in examination. _Older than I initially thought… revising earlier hypotheses to minimum of eight days detainment._ He noticed a small trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. On the same side the cheek was swollen and bruised so the consulting detective determined it was not from hemorrhaging from the bullet wound or other such damages. _Speaking of which… _Sherlock leaned over and reached out to examine said wound when John came back down the stairs in a rush, almost tripping over his own feet on the last step down.

"Well, what are you standing around there for you git? Go hail a cab!" John barked at his flatmate, shooing him out the door. The dark haired man blinked owlishly at the other and then did so after retrieving his infamous scarf and coat.

As the experienced doctor deftly lifted the abused girl from the couch and carried her down the seventeen steps, Mrs. Hudson had roused herself and stood in the hall fretting about what trouble her two boys had dragged into the flat now. She exclaimed in surprise at the sight of the mangled girl in her tenant's arms.

"My goodness John, what on _earth _is going _on?!" _she gasped, holding an arthritic hand over her aged heart.

"I'll tell you later Mrs. Hudson, I don't have the time right now! Get the door would you?" just as he asked it the door swung open to a waiting Sherlock who had successfully hailed the much-needed cab.

John loaded the girl into the small, black car at the cautious inquiry of the driver who considered refusing them, but didn't get a good look at his female passenger so did not.

"Sherlock, where are you going?!" Watson called to the other man as Sherlock was heading back to the flat.

"I need to remain here John, it's important," he stated firmly, looking his friend in the eye so he would know he was serious.

"Are you barmy? I need you to come with me!" John contradicted, brow furrowing as he half climbed out of the car. The cabby coughed pressingly but John just absently waved him off. A light, humorless smile touched Sherlock's lips and he walked to the curb gracefully, putting his hand on the door of the car as John backed into the cab. He looked up into Sherlock's piercing gaze as the other towered over him.

"I think you can cope Dr. Watson." He replied in his deep baritone and with that Sherlock closed the door on John, knowing he was right. As for the moment, Sherlock had more imperative matters to attend to.

John huffed in aggravated annoyance and gave the cabby the location of the clinic.

"So, er, what's wrong with yer friend there?" the cabby, a man more on the elderly side, cautiously asked John, not wanting to get wrapped up in something he could have easily avoided by refusing the pair entry to his cab. Watson was slightly wary of the man, considering his first ever case with his partner and John cursed himself internally for not thinking to grab his pistol.

"She's sick," he lied quickly (another thing he picked up from a certain Holmes) though it wasn't exactly a lie. More or less. But it wasn't really like John had much of an option lest he be kicked out and have to find other means of transportation. He didn't really fancy having to carry the girl guerilla-style all the way to the clinic.

"Ah," was the man's uncertain reply. The rest of the ride commenced in an awkward silence.

They arrived at the clinic in a few minutes' time and John paid the cabby, giving him a good tip and quickly got out, not wanting to jostle the girl who had thankfully (or not) remained less than conscious through the cab ride. There was another thirty minutes until opening, so John still had time. He would just have to ask Sarah to cover for him for a bit.

"Good God John, what the hell?!" she exclaimed as he entered. The doctor sighed in frustration, he would get this all morning.

"Not now Sarah, just help me." he said sternly in his Captain voice. She quickly rose and went to follow suit. The two of them opened an unused room and placed the girl on a spare gurney. John immediately began listing things he would need for Sarah to fetch for him. The doctor was in a heightened state of focus, similar to when Sherlock was in his Mind Palace, and would not let anything get in the way of him saving his patient. He was a military man, well trained and adept. Something like that doesn't leave a person just because they have left the establishment that taught it to you. That strong fight and inner fire that was stoked by war would never leave John Hamish Watson. It was one of the main reasons Sherlock loved him.

…..

Sherlock Holmes returned to the flat, brushing Mrs. Hudson off and going up the two flights of stairs to his flatmate's room. Filching the semi-automatic John kept in his bedside table, he concealed the firearm in his cloak and went back downstairs. Sherlock extensively surveyed the surrounding region of Baker Street for the fourth time before exiting the building again, bidding a baffled Mrs. Hudson to back in and lock her door.

The tall thin man set off down the street, deducing a surveillance perimeter of the flat to protect two of the three most important people in the world from the corruption that this stupid, ignorant girl had undoubtedly brought with her. Just when Sherlock thought he had almost outrun the darkest shadows of this battlefield.

***A/N: **dun, duh, DUH! Yay for updates! Reviews are cupcakes smothered in jam guys, please submit your input! :D (Lest the possibility that this fic ends up in limbo. Which no one wants to see happen. :/ But it most likely won't because I like this one! :D)


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